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What to do with a sick Sadie

When Sadie came to us, now ten years ago, we didn’t know what we were in for. A bundle of endless energy, she was already almost full grown. We estimated when we picked her up on Beardsley Road, after she’s been abandoned by some inhumane human being, that she was about a year old. She was a pretty dog, some kind of pit-bull mongrel, white and black.

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“‘Chillen,’ that’s what they call them”

I walked up a long rise toward the edge of town. The grass between the road and fences turned from gold and green to silver as the wind laid it over. They sky had become a hazy baby blue in the midday heat. There was nothing in the air that hinted at what was to come.

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On-the-job injury and “What if . . .?”

The injury happened in an instant and just a second after that I felt embarrassed, silly, and dumb. I’d dropped the mail into the post box by the door, up one reasonable step from the sidewalk leading to the stoop. Pivoting around on my left foot, I straightened myself out and stepped down with my right foot. My leg turned to spaghetti.

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